


The Northern Way

by andavs



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, And a Loose Understanding of my own Geography, But with Indoor Plumbing, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fake/Pretend Royalty, King Derek Hale, M/M, Shameless Self-Indulgence, Thief Stiles Stilinski, Vaguely Medieval AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 20:33:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17250956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andavs/pseuds/andavs
Summary: Derek wasn’t in denial, he knew an alliance with the north was the only chance they had, but there was no time. The mountains were treacherous, wide, a terribly dangerous journey that took the most experienced travelers months. The Argents would be on their doorstep in weeks. “Even if a messenger manages to cross the range and find someone willing to meet and even begin the discussions, we would be destroyed before they returned.”Scott shrugged. “Then we’ll fake it.”~King Derek and his closest advisor Scott decide to fake a marriage alliance. Stiles is the unlucky bastard who looks the part.





	The Northern Way

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Принц из северной страны](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17611709) by [Dorky_the_dork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorky_the_dork/pseuds/Dorky_the_dork)



Derek stared at the latest maps and tried not to give up on the spot. 

All of the land around his small, coastal strip of a kingdom was marked off in red, closing them in with the sea or surrender as their only options. They couldn’t fight, they were too small. They needed help.

“We need a marriage alliance,” Scott said decisively, as if they didn’t already know that. As if they hadn’t already looked into it. As if they hadn't already exhausted all of their options. “It’s the only thing strong enough to ensure we won’t be abandoned in war.”

“And who do you suggest he marry, Scott?” Isaac asked sharply. All of their neighboring kingdoms, and even their neighbors’ neighboring kingdoms had given in to the Argent might. The already long-standing alliances in the region meant that when one surrendered for mercy, most others did as well in a chain reaction. It was only the sudden deaths of Derek’s family and the subsequent loss of allies that saved the Hales from the same fate.

Except now the decision rested with Derek alone; stand and fight as the last holdout in the south, or give in and let his people, their culture, their way of life be engulfed by the Argent’s steadily growing empire. It was just Derek and his advisors. Eight people tucked away in a back room of the palace, deciding the fates of thousands.

“There’s no one left,” Isaac reminded the room, needlessly. “They’ve all either surrendered or agreed not to intervene to save themselves.”

“Then we go north,” Scott pushed, looking to the rest of the room for support. “There are kingdoms beyond the mountains, there must be someone willing to join us in exchange for resources, access to the sea.”

That set off a murmur of disapproval and Derek dubiously raised his eyebrows at Scott. The north had a reputation, and there was a reason no one attempted to make alliances across the mountains. The difference between north and south wasn’t just in climate, but also in culture. It was cold and wild up there, and the people were widely rumored to be the same way. They were ruthless, hard, unforgiving in battle and in life. Most who journeyed north never returned.

“It’s not happening,” Derek decided with a final nod, signaling the end of the meeting. “We’ll find another way.”

The rest of the council took their dismissal without question and packed away their papers, but Scott didn’t move. He didn’t argue, didn’t try to stop them. He calmly waited until the room was clear and then stood to meet Derek.

“It’s the only way and you know it, Derek” he said with the informality he wasn’t allowed in public. “Our army is miniscule in comparison. We’ll be destroyed in a day without an alliance.”

“There isn’t time,” Derek said harshly, because he knew all of this. He wasn’t in denial, he knew an alliance with the north was the only chance they had, but there was no time. The mountains were treacherous, wide, a terribly dangerous journey that took the most experienced travelers months. The Argents would be on their doorstep in weeks. “Even if a messenger manages to cross the range and find someone willing to meet and even _begin_ the discussions, we would be destroyed before they returned.”

“Then we’ll fake it,” Scott pushed. “Maybe with the right displays and forged papers, we can buy enough time until it’s real.”

That was a new one. 

“You want us to lie to the Argents.” Derek just wanted to make sure he was understanding this correctly before he smacked his closest advisor upside the head for his stupidity. “You want to gamble the lives of our people on faking an alliance with a kingdom we don’t even know exists, and hope that King Gerard hasn’t somehow already spread his influences north?”

The Argent kingdom was massive with a vast web of connections, constantly sending scouts to make more. If anyone had made alliances with kings to the north, scouted and mapped the region with exhaustive detail, it would be Gerard.

“You think he wouldn’t be bragging if he had? The king who conquered the north and made it civilized?” 

He had a point there, but he wasn’t done. 

“What do we have to lose?” Scott pressed, plainly, matter if fact. “They're coming either way. People have already started to evacuate by sea, ships are leaving to trade and not coming back.” That was news to Derek, and it must've shown on his face, despite trying to hide it. “Our people are scared, Derek,” Scott continued. “They need hope, even if it’s false.”

Derek hated that he was actually starting to consider this.

“Say we do fake it— _not that I'm agreeing to this,”_ he added quickly. “How do we do it? They won’t trust an alliance that only exists on paper, especially if my betrothed just so happens to always be away on business.”

“We find a stand-in.” Scott shrugged like it was no big deal.

“And do you happen to know any northerners?” Derek asked. “Because in case you haven’t noticed, none of our people look like they’re from the north.”

Their kingdom was far south and very warm, its economy centered around the sea, and their people reflected that with dark features and deeply tanned skin from hours spent in the sun. The few northerners who had crossed the mountains in history were always depicted as impossibly fair skinned, light haired, blue eyes—they sailed an entirely different sea that was cold and rough, with rocky cliffs rather than crystal clear beaches. Their days were spent huddled around fires and heavy stone fortresses. The sun didn’t reach them up there.

That made Scott hesitate for a moment. Then he looked a little pained, then his mouth crept up into a bit of a conspiring smile.

“Not a northerner, no, but I think I know someone who could work.”

“Really.” Derek wasn’t buying it, but Scott nodded confidently. “And they would be willing to impersonate royalty and probably end up beheaded by the Argents for their deception?”

Scott grinned. “He’d actually probably find it fun.”

“Then he sounds like an idiot.” 

“Kind of yeah,” Scott said with a shrug. “But do you think someone smart would agree to this?”

That was a fair point, but Derek didn’t like what it implied about himself. Or the man he’d chosen to advise him to be a better king. 

“Fine,” he said finally, very reluctantly, but he truly was desperate. “Bring him here, but be quiet about it. Tell no one else. And I haven’t agreed to this yet, so don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

Scott still looked a little pleased with himself as he backed away towards the door, so Derek decided to remind him,

“If this goes wrong, it’s on you.”

“Of course, my king,” he nodded, not worried in the least.

*

Derek was very worried. Not just for his kingdom and its future, but for Scott’s sanity, his own judgment, and his family’s heirlooms. Because Scott’s idea of a perfect stand-in for a northern royal was a thief. A literal thief. Who didn’t even have a real name.

“My name is Stiles,” the thief protested and Derek glared. 

“That’s not a name.” He turned to Scott. “We’re not doing this. Get him out of here, and make sure he hasn’t taken anything.”

Scott’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “You haven’t even talked to him!”

“I don’t have to. I’m not leaving the future of the kingdom in the hands of a thief.”

“Hey, I have very capable hands!”

Derek ignored him. “We’ll find another way. Get him out of here.”

Scott stalked forward and leaned over Derek’s desk to hiss quietly, “There is no other way and you know it. He has no family, he doesn’t have friends, no one is going to call our bluff.” If Stiles heard all this, he didn’t show it. He was eyeing a golden dagger mounted on the wall with a concerning gleam in his eye. “We don’t have any other options, Derek.”

More to humor him than anything else, Derek looked over Stiles again, really took a moment to study him. 

He definitely had the fair complexion of the north, though that was probably from sleeping during the day and thieving at night, rather than working around the docks or out at sea, or even up in the farms in the hills. His hair wasn’t very light, and his eyes were brown instead of blue, but that probably wouldn’t give him away.

No, everything else about him would. His maybe-northern complexion was mostly obscured by a terrible, scraggly beard, and Derek could see the knots in his hair from ten feet away. His clothes were dark and rough, he slouched and fidgeted like he was constantly about to run, and he’d already given Derek more attitude than he’d ever received in all his life in the palace, even from his sisters. Not to mention the way he spoke.

“He sounds local,” Derek argued, and Scott immediately countered with, “We’ll teach him an accent.”

“He doesn’t look like royalty.”

“Not our kind of royalty, but who knows what our distant northern royal looks like?”

Derek had to give him that point, if reluctantly. The northerners were barbarians, who was to say that their royals didn’t slouch and fidget and insult their guests?

“His hair is a mess.” It was a last ditch effort.

“We can cut it and make him shave.”

“Hey!” Stiles interrupted at that, wedging himself right in next to Scott and leaning forward onto Derek’s desk like no one else had dared do since there were other Hales in the palace. “What’s wrong with my beard? He has one.” He nodded at Derek.

“He’s the king,” Scott responded, “and yours is patchy.”

Stiles immediately covered his beard protectively, and Derek almost shivered at the dirt under his nails. Scott was also eying his nails, looking a little disgusted.

He shook it away and turned back to Derek. “Give me three days. I can make it work.”

“You have two,” Derek immediately countered, knowing he would fail. “And I’m sending Boyd and Erica north for when this inevitably fails and we need a real ally.”

If anyone could make it through the mountains, it would be them. They’d never make it back in time, but at least they wouldn’t be slaughtered with the rest of them. Someone should survive and spread the warning.

Scott grinned happily and clapped Stiles on the shoulder, maybe to keep him from running away, as he looked about to do. 

“This will work,” he said earnestly. “We won’t let you down.”

Stiles didn’t look like he shared his optimism, judging from his dubious squint. He might’ve been frowning as well, it was hard to tell through his awful beard, but he let Scott physically turn him around and guide him out of the chamber.

 _“Thief,”_ Derek called him back and held out his hand. “My dagger.”

Scott covered his face with an audible sigh as Stiles reluctantly fished the priceless gold dagger out of his pants.

*

If Boyd and Erica had any doubts or judgments about being sent north, they didn’t voice or show it. Too much. Boyd raised an eyebrow which was as good as an organized protest, but they still nodded, packed up their things, and set out that night so no one else in the palace would know of the plan. 

The Stiles plan would fail, Derek knew it, and there was no use point in announcing his fake engagement or their fake alliance to anyone who didn't need to know of it. Scott wanted to give their people hope, said a formal announcement would give it more credibility, but Derek wasn’t cruel enough to tell them help was coming when it wasn’t.

If that meant they lost supplies and manpower by people sailing away with their families, then so be it. Derek wasn’t about to trick his people into dying for him because he had foolishly believed he could be king when he was too inept to uphold the strongest alliances.

And he really was inept if the only person he could find to even _pretend_ to marry him was Stiles.

Neither Scott nor Stiles noticed him standing in the doorway yet, but he wasn’t sure if their behavior would’ve changed at all if they had.

“Just let me trim it back!” Scott was yelling, a pair of scissors poised at Stiles’ throat. The beard was a little hacked at, there was one bit of jaw showing through that was probably caused in the brawl, but it seemed that cutting and styling his hair was the extent of Stiles’ cooperation.

“I look like a baby without it!” Stiles protested, and continued to squirm away.

“You already look like a baby tried to cut it! Just let me fix it!”

 _“Why are you doing this to me?”_

_“Stop yelling or someone will hear!”_ was the last shriek that Derek heard as he walked away.

They were all going to die.

*

Scott’s deadline to create a northern prince from scratch was up the next evening, when he and Stiles joined Derek for a private dinner, and even Derek had to admit that he hadn’t done a terrible job. 

Stiles’ hair was cut and styled, his horrible beard was completely gone, and he was actually dressed nicely. He looked a little uncomfortable in his new clothes and kept tugging at the collar (with clean and neatly trimmed fingernails), but he actually looked kind of royal. Maybe even handsome. If he didn’t move or speak, anyway.

“Damn it, fuck, damn it,” he swore, mopping up his spilled wine with a fine linen napkin.

Derek closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if that would drive away the headache pounding behind his entire face.

“Don’t say that, and don’t use that napkin,” Scott cut in, taking the napkin and jogging to the sideboard to retrieve a cloth for actual cleaning. Normally a servant would handle it, but no one could see Stiles yet. “And maybe move slower,” he continued as he dabbed up the wine that had splashed onto the other dishes. “Or just don’t reach for anything.”

“Well if you guys didn’t use six glasses for one meal…” Stiles grumbled, and shoved his new napkin into his lap when Scott gestured.

“It’s fine,” Scott assured him, and then Derek. “We’re fine. This can all be explained by being northern.”

“I don’t think even the northerners are this bad,” Derek said on a heavy sigh, and met Stiles’ glare head on.

“I’m trying!” he insisted. “I’ve never seen this many forks in one place before, there’s going to be a bit of a learning curve!” It was almost an improvement, until he added, “For fucks sake.”

“Don’t say that,” Scott said. It already sounded instinctive. “We’ll be fine. We have time.”

There was a knock at the door, and a servant stuck his head in. “Sir Lahey is requesting an immediate audience.”

“Hide!” Scott hissed at Stiles, in a panic and completely negating his last reassuring statement. “No one can see you yet, hide!”

Stiles gave him a look, but didn’t hesitate before smoothly ducking down under the table, hidden by the tablecloth. He hardly made a sound, barely disturbed anything around him, and for a very brief moment, it was almost believable that he was a thief.

At least until there was a thud of his head on the underside of the table and a whispered curse.

“Don’t say that!”

*

Even though they were now fully committed to the fake fiancé plan, they hadn’t told anyone else. Derek was still holding out some kind of childish hope that a letter would arrive from Boyd and Erica with good news, and Stiles was still working on his odd “northern” accent that probably wouldn’t hold up under any kind of scrutiny. And they were still working on some of the minor details, like where he was from, what exactly he was prince of, how in the hell he came to be engaged to Derek, and every other part of his story.

“I say small kingdom looking for stability,” Scott said, poking at part of the map they had laid out. “This area is perfect. I know for a fact it’s unexplored and it’s hard to get to. There’s no way the Argents know about it.”

Stiles wrinkled his nose at the snowy pocket on the edge of the mountains. “I don’t want to be from there, that looks cold.”

“You’re supposed to be northern, it’s going to be cold no matter what,” Derek said flatly, then turned back to Scott. “A kingdom that small isn’t going to be very impressive to the Argents. I think it should be bigger, maybe around here.” He gestured vaguely further north, right on the coast. “If they’re coastal, we could have another navy to back us up.”

Stiles snorted. “It would take months for them to get here. That river isn’t large enough for anything intimidating to get through. They’d have to take the long way around.”

Derek and Scott briefly met in a confused frown. “How do you know that?”

Stiles shrugged. “I read. And I’m right. The fucking paddle boats that fit that river aren’t going to intimidate shit.”

“Language,” Scott warned, and carried on. “What if we say they’re already on the way? Stationing a squadron in our waters as part of the marriage alliance, something like that?”

“That just sounds incredibly convenient,” Stiles said, and Derek had to agree.

“They know we know they're coming,” he said. “We need to choose somewhere close enough for a theoretical army to get here in time, but not suspiciously convenient.” So the northern coast was out.

They all stared at the map for a few moments, studying the marked routes and the little bit of northern geography that was known.

“I think it’ll have to be here,” Scott said, gesturing again to the little cove in the mountains. “It’s close enough and protected enough to have stayed hidden this long.”

“At a high enough elevation that it would be hard for southern scouts to reach,” Derek added, if somewhat reluctantly. “It’s snowy and cold, cut off, the Argents couldn't get in there if they tried.” Their soldiers were fierce in their home climate, storming over sunny hills and olive groves with few who could stand in their way, but the mountain passes were notoriously treacherous. Very few made it through.

“And we might be able to use the northern reputation to make up for the small kingdom. Really emphasize their brutality in battle, start a few rumors about their conquests. They don’t need to be big if everyone’s too afraid to face them.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “You can do that in just a few weeks?” 

Scott grinned. “I know our people. If I tell Lady Lydia, the news will spread to the Argents in _days.”_

“No announcements,” Derek reminded him, but his grin didn’t fall.

“No announcements, just rumors.”

Somehow that sounded more ominous than the impending invasion.

*

It took all of one day for Scott’s rumors to spread not only through the people, but back around to the palace and Derek’s advisors. And then to his own office. 

He looked up from his massive pile of increasingly depressing reports of Argent activity to see a crowd of advisors frowning at him from the doorway of his office. Scott looked a little too pleased with himself at the back.

Derek deliberately put down his pen.

“You may speak freely,” he told them, knowing what was coming. 

They crowded into the room, crammed in a respectful distance from his desk, someone at the back shut the door, and then they all exploded at once. 

“What’s this about an alliance with the north, your highness?”

“The north! Barbarians!”

“Sir, I would advise we surrender to the _Argents_ before turning to the north!”

“They will slaughter us all the second we open our gates to them!”

“We don’t even know their language, how will we negotiate? A fight to the death?”

“Barbarians!”

After the first ten minutes of this, the cries of doom started to repeat themselves, and then completely devolved into shrilly recounting the rumors and horror stories they’d heard of northerners.

“When they attack, they don’t even leave livestock alive! They burn the farms down just because they can!”

“Their children are pitted against each other so only the strongest survive!”

“Anyone shorter than this is automatically killed!”

“Barbarians!”

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes tightly. Scott had done his job a little too well. They were describing an eight foot mountain of a man, of dirty, stupid muscle, and there was no way Stiles, their scrawny, pale thief, could ever live up to these rumors of ruthless giants roaming the frozen wasteland of the north.

“We need to prepare the castle guards for an attack from within!”

“We need to close down the market!”

“We cannot trust these savages in our lands!”

“They aren’t savages!” Derek finally interrupted, praying he was actually right about that. Praying that true northerners didn’t somehow come storming through their gates now that they knew there was a weakened kingdom to invade. It was just his luck that they would.

When his advisors finally fell silent, he continued. “The Argents are practically at our gates. All that stands between us and them, are those who have already surrendered and will let the Argents pass through their lands freely. So either we also surrender and hope they don’t kill all of us for monopoly of the sea, or we find alliances elsewhere. We don’t have the luxury of turning up our noses at those who offer to help.”

Isaac was the first one to break the following silence.

“But why must we go north? Why not cross the sea, try asking our trading partners again.”

“They’ve turned us down, repeatedly,” Scott reminded them all. “They rely on the trade through our ports. If they join us and lose that, they won’t survive. They can’t afford to make an enemy of the Argents.”

“But the north?” someone at the back moaned dramatically, and Scott immediately shut him down with, “It’s happening, and that’s final! The prince is arriving tomorrow to finalize the agreement.”

And then it was official. Stiles was their northern prince, the sham of a marriage was on. It was time for Stiles to polish up his “northern” accent, because he was about to be thrown into center stage after less than a week to prepare.

“Who is he?” Isaac demanded. “Do we even know anything about this prince? What’s his name?”

“Stiles,” Derek answered before he realized that that was _not_ a northern-sounding name. It wasn’t even southern-sounding because it wasn’t a name at all, and it certainly wasn’t what a prince would be called.

“Is what he likes to be called,” Scott finished after only a brief second of panic. “The language is a little difficult, so he’s going by Stiles to help us out.”

“Prince _Stiles?”_ Isaac’s disdain was clear in his tone, on his face, and in the way his body moved.

“That’s dumb,” someone muttered quietly at the back, and Derek couldn’t help but agree.

*

“We can’t call him Prince Stiles!” Derek hissed later that evening, once he and Scott had finally broken away from the chaos to get to Stiles’ hidden chamber. It was an older room that was tucked away in a back corner of the king’s apartment, unused for decades, because it had once been used for secret trysts and hiding away illicit lovers. It was the only safe place to stash him where no one else would see him, because no one else in the castle knew of it anymore.

“I don’t know any northern names!” Scott argued back, while Stiles lounged at the desk and watched them argue. He had a golden letter opener that he was flipping through his fingers absently, making it move in ways that didn’t seem possible, without even looking at it.

“Well we need something to call him when the Argents come! He needs a proper title!”

“Like what? I don’t even know what languages they speak up there!”

“Well, figure out a language quickly, because he needs to speak it tomorrow! Thank you very much for that,” Derek added, voice dripping with sarcasm. They hadn't agreed to present Stiles publicly yet and none of them were ready. It was more than a week earlier than they had originally agreed upon.

“Hold on.” Stiles’ chair creaked as he sat forward, squinting from one to the other in total disbelief. “You guys are seriously making all of this up? You’re actually faking a marriage alliance with a region you’ve never been to, that speaks languages you don’t even know the name of, never even heard, and you don’t even have a name to give me?”

Derek glared while Scott shifted a little uncomfortably and said awkwardly, “I told you it was fake.”

Stiles snorted with a mean smirk. “Yeah but I thought you had _something_ to go on! I mean, what accent have you been teaching me?”

After a guilty pause, Scott said unconvincingly, “It’s not like anyone knows what they sound like anyway.”

“You hope,” Stiles clarified. 

“We’re pretty sure,” Derek said. He should defend his advisor since he did have a part in all of this as well, if reluctantly. Stiles shifted his interrogation to him without missing a beat.

“Based on?”

“Reports.”

“From?”

“Scouts.”

“Where?”

“Around.”

“Very convincing. You’ve really boosted my confidence in all this.”

“And you’ve pocketed my letter opener.” Derek held out his hand, and Stiles rolled his eyes but pulled the gold opener out of his sleeve and handed it over. “You’re absolutely shameless.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“That’s different. We’re desperate.” 

Stiles shrugged and said, “Not as different as you think.”

This time Derek rolled his eyes. As if petty theft could ever be compared to the weight of the crown, of thousands of lives on his shoulders. The fate of a kingdom hanging on his decisions. Stiles only said that because he had never and would never know what that kind of pressure felt like.

*

Apparently the palace didn't appreciate having the arrival of a foreign prince—”Ruthless! Inhuman! Barbaric!”—sprung on them the day before, because Derek didn't sleep. At all. And not because of nerves.

If it wasn't his advisors and planners and chefs wringing their hands about processions and menus, it was Scott yanking him into darkened rooms to summarize the backstory he and Stiles had been concocting, or generals bringing bad news of Argent movements. It was lucky that Lady Lydia stepped in to take charge around dinner time and started barking orders at anyone who approached, or Derek probably would've marched right out to meet the Argents head on, alone, with no weapon or armor to speak of. He just wanted one moment to himself to bathe and sit in blessed silence. 

Just one. 

Even if he only got it through death.

And he almost got it at three in the morning, when he finally snuck back to his bedroom unseen _and_ managed to shut the old, squeaky door silently. But the second he sat down and closed his eyes, the door burst open again to Isaac with a pile of parchment clutched in his hands, demanding to know procession details.

“There won't be a procession,” Derek sighed, leaning back in his chair and staring blankly at the ceiling. He could hear Isaac’s eyeroll in his tone.

“Stop being dramatic. Just tell me which streets to clear, by what time, and it'll be done.”

“None of them.” Derek closed his eyes one last time before he forced himself to raise his head to meet Isaac's very confused glare. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes, but I didn't understand you. How exactly is the northern party supposed to get through the city? It's a market day, the main streets will be packed. It'll be chaos.”

“There is no party,” Derek said flatly, dreading the upset that was about to come. “The prince is arriving alone.”

It wasn't ideal, but they couldn't very well fake a group of northerners with all of the foreign ceremonial garb and peoples. They’d been hard pressed to find _one_ unknown person who looked northern, let alone enough to fill a prince's travelling party.

“I'm sorry?” Isaac said after a long, shocked silence. “He's arriving _alone?”_

Derek nodded and turned his gaze back to the ceiling. It was a lot more relaxing than Isaac's anxious, angry energy. He needed a less dedicated staff who would actually sleep at night.

“But he can't arrive alone, there are rules!” Isaac continued. “There are customs! We have a dining room specifically for them, and Lady Lydia has been overseeing its preparation for two hours!”

“We can still use the dining room, just don't set as many places at the table.” Had the palace always gotten so flustered over superfluous details? They were weeks away from the Argents attacking, and Isaac was worried about a _dining room?_

Isaac looked down at his papers for a long moment, seemingly shocked into inaction by anyone not going to the most extravagant extremes of royalty.

“But the market…” he started slowly, and Derek's patience broke.

“Forget the market!” he snapped. “They'll never know he was there!”

After an awkward beat of silence, Isaac quickly folded his papers and nodded. “I'll pass this on to Lydia.” And then he fled without a backwards glance.

Derek rolled his eyes and closed them for all of ten seconds before there was another knock at the door. Jackson stuck his head in.

*

The constant train of frazzled advisors and planners didn’t stop until the very last second, even going so far as to pop into Derek’s room while he was naked in the bath. And shaving. And pulling up his trousers. Most of the time, it made sense for the king not to have a lock on his door, in case someone managed to attack him in his sleep and guards needed to burst in and save him, but right at that moment...if he couldn't have a lock, he would welcome an assassin with open arms.

By the time Stiles was scheduled to “arrive”, the palace had worked itself up in to a flurry of needless hysteria, and Derek was ready to whip out a sword and stab the next person who spoke to him.

“Just a few more hours,” Scott whispered at his side, standing before the court and awaiting the arrival of his betrothed. “Just get through dinner and you can be alone.”

“I am going to kill you,” Derek whispered back through clenched teeth, and wished the sword on his belt was more than ceremonial.

Whatever Scott’s response was, it was drowned out by trumpets sounding, signaling the arrival of the infamous northern prince, and everyone in the room surged forward to catch their first glimpse of this barbarian set to marry their king. Based on reports from Scott, the vast majority seemed to assume this northern prince was arriving alone _not_ because his kingdom was too small to spare a party to accompany him, but because he was so fierce and ruthless that he didn’t _need_ the extra protection or support. He’d just stormed across the mountain range by himself, unconcerned by danger or death.

Having painted this very large and intimidating image in their minds, this massive giant of rage and power, they were sorely disappointed to see Stiles entering the hall.

Or possibly even more intimidated as the room held a collective breath while a single set of footsteps cut through the silence, echoing through the high ceilings.

Stiles was playing it up, Derek could tell even through the piles of musty furs Scott had piled on the thief. His chest was puffed out, shoulders set back, he didn’t look anyone in the eye as he approached with a confidence Derek hadn’t expected. He approached the foot of the steps to the throne, bowed with...some difficulty under all of his layers, and when Derek reached out to accept his hand, Stiles’ hand was red, sweaty, and shaking slightly. Likely from heat exhaustion and wearing so much fur in the dead of a southern summer.

Their hands touched, Derek bowed his head in response, and the room let out a relieved sigh that devolved into cheers.

The northern prince wasn’t a hulking, one eyed giant of myth, he hadn’t killed their king on sight, things were finally looking up for the kingdom.

“I’m about to pass out,” Stiles said quietly, listing somewhat to the side.

*

The welcoming feast was stiff and formal, with everyone hoping to catch a glimpse of the ruthless northern prince doing something wild and animalistic, but trying not to appear like they were. Even once they were sat and eating, there was a steady stream of nobles approaching Derek’s table in a very outdated custom that hadn’t been observed for decades, if not centuries—and even when they spoke to their king, their eyes were on Stiles.

Stiles, who as a thief had never been under this kind of scrutiny and looked supremely uncomfortable with it all. And while under this intense scrutiny, he also had to contend with a full course of “northern” dishes from musty old books placed before him. Derek had seen him subtly spit bites of shockingly smelly fish into his napkin more than once.

(Honestly, Derek had no idea where his chefs had managed to acquire such a fish, but they deserved both a raise and a beating at the same time.)

By the time the whole affair was finally over, Stiles looked ready to drop from exhaustion, and it was only Derek’s upbringing in the palace that kept him hiding his own fatigue. That and, for the first time in years, it wasn’t Derek who was the center of attention so he could yawn into his sleeve without six aides asking if he needed anything.

He bade goodnight to those he had to and retreated further into the castle where the guests weren't allowed and no one stared. Well, they were staring, but all of their focus was on Stiles. There was a crowd of servants and aides shepherding him to his room, pantomiming their intention and saying things like, _Your room, we are taking you there,_ very loudly and slowly, as if that would break through the fake language barrier.

Stiles looked like he was seconds from yelling at all of them.

His eyes briefly met Derek's over the head of a maid who seemed to think he needed help walking, and they begged for mercy. Derek could only shrug and look sympathetic, secretly thrilled that for once, no one was harassing him.

And really, there wasn't anything he could do that wouldn't arouse suspicion. Normally a visiting royal was surrounded by their own aides and servants who would take care of them, and all the palace had to do was give them a bed and show them where the towels were kept. But Stiles had no one, and a foreign royal wandering around alone just wasn’t done.

After one final check-in with his aides and advisors—“He doesn’t seem very ruthless, is this alliance even worth it?”—Derek finally made it to his apartment and shut the door tightly against the chaotic hum of the palace beyond. He stripped off his clothes, left them piled on the floor because he was just too exhausted to deal with hangers, and sighed in relief as he settled into bed. He closed his eyes, took a few deep, calming breaths, and revelled in the blessed silence of his royal apartment, with its thicker walls and express instructions for him to not be disturbed for anything short of an Argent attack.

He was finally alone.

He could finally sleep.

Except someone was throwing up in his bathroom.

Derek’s eyes snapped open again with a flare of righteous anger. Someone was in his apartment, and he was going to kill them. 

Stiles was the only person who had ever had permission to be there, but now that he’d been officially presented to the court, he’d been moved to the luxurious guest suite in the east wing. He had a battalion of aides and servants assigned to tend to his every need, and no one would let him anywhere near Derek’s quarters without alerting him.

And yet someone was in Derek’s bathroom, throwing up. Normally he was a fair and forgiving ruler, but he was exhausted, his nerves were fried, he hadn’t slept soundly in days, and that someone would die in a very public manner.

Derek threw back the blankets and didn’t even bother with the lights. He did, however, grab his sword, because even though he wasn’t worried about being attacked, he wanted this trespasser to fear for their life. 

He was the king, damn it, he deserved one night of sleep!

Stalking down the narrow hall from his bedroom, he threw open the closed bathroom door, turned up the gas on the lamp, and didn’t even get to raise his sword, because it was Stiles. Hunched over the toilet, heaving up everything he’d eaten at dinner.

It smelled roughly the same coming back up.

Derek hesitated, leaned his sword in the corner as quietly as possible, and took a cautious step forward. Stiles knew he was there, he'd made quite the entrance, there was no sneaking back out.

“Are you alright?” he asked awkwardly.

Stiles raised his head from the toilet just long enough to glare, before another dry heave clenched through his body. 

“Stupid question,” Derek agreed.

Stiles groaned pathetically.

Apparently northern cuisine didn't agree with a southern stomach. Derek couldn't help but be grateful for his foresight in politely declining the offer to partake in that aspect of his betrothed's culture.

“My first act as your husband will be executing your kitchen staff,” Stiles muttered, and Derek just nodded sympathetically even though he couldn't see him with his face in the toilet.

Once it seemed that Stiles’ stomach was calming down, Derek ducked back to his bedroom to pour a glass of water from the pitcher, and received a grateful nod when he handed it over. Unsure of what else to do, Derek leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. It didn’t feel right to leave Stiles a sweaty and shaky mess on the floor, but he wasn’t about to sit down on the tile where there could very well be vomit.

He made a note to wipe it down briefly before the maid came through in the morning. He didn’t need any rumors of his own sickness spreading on top of the impending Argent attack.

And speaking of...

“What are you doing in here?” he finally asked. Stiles’ guest chambers had at least two private bathrooms, maybe three.

Stiles took a sip of water and swished it around before spitting it into the toilet. He took another sip and collapsed back against the wall next to Derek’s feet.

“Your servants won’t leave me alone for two seconds, and I can’t exactly be seen throwing up the food of my people, now can I?”

That was a fair point.

“Then how did you get in here?” The path from the east wing to Derek’s chambers went through some very public halls that were staffed with guards, and even if they weren’t, the palace never really slept. Especially with such a large threat on the horizon. There was always someone rushing around at every hour of the night.

And that someone would’ve seen the northern prince heading for the king’s apartment and immediately raised the alarm.

Stiles took another sip of water and shrugged. “I’m a thief.”

Derek raised his eyebrows and gave him his best, _I’m the king, explain yourself now_ expression.

“It’s an old palace, it has a lot of passages.”

Not that he thought Stiles would assassinate him in his sleep, but Derek wasn't thrilled to hear about that major security concern. He grew up in the palace, he thought he’d found all of the secret passages exploring with his sisters, and he didn’t know of any that would lead directly to his own chambers.

“You’re showing me all of them, tomorrow.” It wasn’t a request, and Stiles just sipped his glass of water.

They sat in silence for a few minutes while Stiles breathed cautiously, pausing every time his abdomen jumped, ready to dive back to the toilet should anything else try to reappear. It seemed that thankfully, everything had already found its way out.

Then Stiles broke the silence.

“Did you bring a sword?”

Derek didn’t look at him. “That’s always been there.”

Stiles didn’t buy it for a second. “If there was a bathroom sword, I would’ve stolen it.” He laughed quietly to himself, and sighed, “You’re such a bad liar, we’re going to die so painfully.”

There was no denying it, it was probably true.

And on that uplifting note, Derek decided to make his exit.

“Do you need anything else?”

Stiles waved him away. “I’ll go back to my room in a few minutes. But Derek?” He paused at the doorway. “If they bring me that fucking fish for breakfast, I will vomit directly into their faces.”

Derek nodded. “I’ll send word to the kitchen.”

*

 _The prince would prefer to experience the local cuisine rather than his own,_ was the tactful note delivered to the kitchen, and Stiles’ relief was visible when a plate of bread, cheese, jams, and fruit was placed before him in Derek’s private dining room. It was an open loggia with archways looking out over the city, the crystal blue sea sparkling in the distance.

“Thank you,” Stiles said to the servant in his thick and very fake accent, like he wasn’t sure of the pronunciation, and she beamed as she bowed herself out of the room to leave them in peace.

The second the door closed and her footsteps retreated, Stiles collapsed in relief, threw off the heavy fur cape Scott insisted he wear in public, and dug into his food like he hadn’t been vomiting well into the morning. Derek just stared, in both awe and disgust.

“Should you be eating that much so soon?” It was more for the sake of his poor bathroom than Stiles’ health.

Stiles just glared and took a spiteful bite of his jam-covered bread, so Derek shrugged and spread jam on his own bread with far more restraint.

“Fine, throw up in your own bathroom next time.”

“That was your own fault for feeding me that garbage.” He reached over to Derek’s plate and snagged one of his rolls. “Try it again, and I’ll throw up in your bed.”

Derek grabbed his roll right back and asked, “Do you normally use your own bodily fluids as a threat this often?”

“Keep pushing and find out.” He took one of Derek’s orange slices while he was focused on protecting his rolls and grinned dickishly while he ate it.

“You know I’m your king, right?” Derek asked, somewhat amazed at his audacity to be _stealing from the king’s plate._

It didn’t faze Stiles in the least, and he didn’t even hesitate as he threw back, “And you know I’m saving your ass, right?”

“Not if this is how you’re going to behave.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I’m a _barbarian,_ remember? I’m just getting into character.”

“Please don’t,” Derek said flatly as there was a knock at the door. He raised his eyebrows pointedly, and Stiles glared, but picked up his fur cloak from the floor and tugged it back over his shoulders just in time for a few servants to bring a new tray of fruits and a selection of fresh squeezed juices to choose from.

*

After breakfast, they parted for the day. Derek’s schedule was packed with meetings with his advisors and generals, trying to answer questions about his new marriage alliance that he had no answers to. 

What kind of military support can we expect? _Hasn’t been fully agreed upon._

Will they be given access to our ports? _It’s being discussed._

Will northerners be allowed to live within the city? _We’re leaning towards yes._

What kind of power will the prince have after the marriage? _We’re still discussing his responsibilities both here and in his homeland._

Will he have any input on military matters? _I’ll know that when we learn his background._

By the time the constant stream of people demanding answers finally thinned to just Scott looking sympathetic, Derek had a pounding headache and marching out to meet the Argents alone was starting to sound very appealing again.

“So, we might be in trouble,” Scott finally sighed, and Derek paused in rubbing his temples to give him a long, flat look. “I’ve never seen what goes into a marriage alliance!” Scott protested. “I didn’t know everyone would get so...inquisitive!”

“It’s their job to be inquisitive,” Derek growled, “they need to know details to advise.” He rubbed his entire face and made a note to trim back his beard. And maybe slit his own throat in the process. “This was a mistake.”

“No,” Scott cut in firmly. “Don’t give up, it’s only been two days.”

“And we already made Stiles sick with our _northern cuisine.”_ At Scott’s confused frown, he explained the previous night.

“Okay, that’s good!” Trust Scott to find the upside of everything. “It makes it look like he’s really committed to learning our culture and immersing himself in it. People will love that, and the Argents will be more likely to buy a marriage alliance that the entire country supports.”

“And then the entire country will riot when they find out the northern prince they’ve come to love is actually a common thief from the docks.”

Scott waved that away with the exact same gesture Stiles had used the night before. They were spending too much time together.

“We’ll stage a tragic accident and he can pass away heroically before they need to find out. Stiles gets back to his life, we get back to ours, and if necessary, you’ll be freed up for another marriage alliance.”

Derek blinked in surprise. “That’s shockingly pragmatic coming from you.” Scott was normally a diehard romantic who had often encouraged Derek to believe in things like true love and optimism.

“It was Stiles’ idea, actually.” That explained it. “I’m really hoping it doesn’t come to that.”

“Well if it does, be sure to pat him down for valuables on the way out.”

*

Derek didn’t see Stiles until a few hours later, when they were reunited for a private dinner in the loggia—blessedly free from any northern fare. Stiles still poked around his plate with caution before digging in with his usual enthusiasm for food.

He’d thrown off his fur cloak at some point, probably shoved it in a cabinet to claim it was lost, and he seemed much more comfortable without it in the warm night air. Even if his clothes were still just a touch too heavy for the southern climate.

“Where have you been all day?” Derek finally asked, breaking the somewhat comfortable silence—not out of concern for Stiles, but for his family’s valuables. Derek felt better when he knew that his thief had been closely supervised.

Stiles grinned. “Isaac gave me a very thorough tour of the city I grew up in.”

Derek raised an eyebrow at Stiles’ mocking tone. “He thinks he’s building bridges to the wild north.”

“He’s very good at it.”

“Don’t mock him, he’s trying his best.”

“And he’s very good at it! I’m not just being a dick, he’s legitimately a great tour guide.” He took a bite of his dinner and said with with a full mouth, “You should remember that for when you actually marry an actual foreign royal.”

Derek grinned but did stash that away for future reference.

“And what were you doing all day? You’ve got that stress line.” Stiles gestured to his own forehead between his eyebrows, and Derek’s hand automatically came up to his own face. Stiles smirked to himself, the dick.

“Talking about you, actually,” Derek answered, and internally smirked at the apprehension clear on Stiles’ face.

“Don’t tell me we’ve already been found out.” He looked ready to dive over the railing at a moment’s notice.

“Not yet, but my generals are curious about this berserker of a northern prince and already debating how to deploy him against the Argents.”

Stiles looked like he was trying his best to act casual, but his face didn’t quite school completely. He was a thief, not a warrior, and he would likely be killed in minutes if he set foot in a real battle. His eyes kept flicking towards the railing.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t promised you for anything,” Derek assured him after letting him stew for a little bit. He had to get his entertainment where he could these days. “You don’t even speak the language, how could you follow orders?”

“And it’s going to stay that way until the northern prince dies tragically and I get the hell out of here before anyone finds out who I am.”

Yep, that plan definitely came from Stiles.

“And how is the northern prince going to die tragically?”

Stiles shrugged around a bite of food. “We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it, but I’m thinking some kind of northern assassin from a rival kingdom.” Derek raised his eyebrows. “Well I’m not going to frame anyone down here and risk starting a war, you guys can barely handle this one.”

“And who’s to say the northern prince doesn’t tragically trip and fall down some stairs?”

Stiles glared. “The northern prince who will unexpectedly rise from the dead and tragically seek his revenge against the king who pushed him.”

Derek couldn’t help the smile tugging at the corner of his lips, so he looked down to focus on cutting his roasted vegetables. “And what happens from there, he takes over the kingdom? Actually becomes a northern king?”

 _“Southern_ king,” Stiles immediately corrected him. “None of that fucking fish.”

“Language,” Derek warned mildly, and Stiles waved him off with a heatless sneer.

*

Their now-routine private breakfast was interrupted the next morning by Isaac, who wanted to discuss his plans for Stiles’ day with Derek. After their tour of the city, he was planning an equally thorough tour of the palace, its grounds, introduce him to the important people to know; the kitchen staff, those in the stables, head servants and aides—all the people who kept the place running smoothly.

Stiles looked like that was the last thing he wanted to do, but he couldn’t actually protest because he wasn’t supposed to know what Isaac was saying. So he kept eating, occasionally played up confused face when he picked up a fruit for the first time, and looked like he was listening politely while trying to keep his reactions from showing too much. He was mostly successful, but Derek caught a few eye rolls when Isaac wasn’t looking.

What Derek really wanted to do was take Stiles on that tour himself, have a day off from his usual meetings full of doom and gloom and reports of the Argents inching closer to their borders. It was a little surprising to realize that his private time with Stiles had somehow become his favorite part of the day, but it made sense. He was annoying and rude, but he was also the only person who didn’t want to talk about alliances and enemy armies, and instead preferred to bicker like children.

He was a welcome break from real life, but one Derek wouldn’t get that morning. Isaac swept Stiles off the moment his plate was clear, tugging him from the room before Derek or Stiles could say anything to each other beyond _good morning._

Derek refused to admit to himself how disappointed he was by that.

*

Luckily, Derek had a different...somewhat welcomed distraction from his duties that afternoon, in the form of Lady Lydia approaching his walking meeting with his agricultural advisors. Normally that wouldn’t have been noteworthy, and they would’ve stood to the side of the covered walkway as she passed, but today there was eye contact of intention.

“Walk with me,” she ordered as she approached, with the authority only she had over the king. Derek had no choice but to back away from his advisors and fall into step with her in the other direction.

They walked in silence, giving Derek a moment to decompress, until Lydia chose a place to pause, looking out over the gardens. Down below in the sunshine, Isaac seemed to be explaining a fountain to Stiles, but their voices didn’t carry up to the third floor. There was a lot of gesturing towards the large fountain.

“So who is he?” Lydia finally asked, blunt as she always was when she thought Derek was doing something particularly stupid. He was on the receiving end of that tone a lot.

Derek made a bit of a show of looking down at the pair and answered stupidly, “Looks like Isaac.” He could feel Lydia's flat glare aimed at the side of his face.

“Will he be recognized?” she demanded.

“No family,” Derek answered, instead of explaining the whole _thief_ thing. He didn't need her judging him even more than she already was.

“Friends?”

“So far just Scott.”

“Profession?”

He should’ve known he wouldn’t be able to keep that a secret. She would find out eventually.

“Thief.”

Lydia snorted. “I see you’ve thought this through with your usual close attention to detail.” A deserved hit. “Where is he supposed to be from?”

“The north,” Derek answered after a brief hesitation.

“The north,” Lydia echoed, almost disgustedly. “You don’t even have a name for his kingdom?”

“Would anyone know it anyways?”

Lydia shifted, leaning her hip against the railing to pin him with a rightfully judgmental look. “You’re betting a lot on no one knowing anything at all about the north.” Her tone was concerning. “Did you even do any research?”

“Of course.”

“Where?”

“Books.” She raised her eyebrows. “In the library.”

“And where did those books come from?” 

Derek didn't even have to answer because right at that moment, they both knew he was an idiot. Well, they did before, but now he was a colossal idiot.

Those books came to the palace from the kingdom to the northwest, with Lydia, when her royal parents sent her to live with the Hales. Their kingdom had bordered on the mountains, holding the only known pass to the north; a prime target when the Argents began their conquest, and one of the first to fall to their might. Lydia had only survived by her parents’ foresight to send her away.

“My ancestors were the first and last to make contact with the north,” Lydia reminded him. “Did you really not think to ask me for help?”

“I didn’t want to get you involved,” he lied, but once he said it, he knew it was true. The fewer people in the palace who knew of the deception, the more people the Argents would let live. Lydia didn’t deserve to die because Derek and Scott had a dumb idea.

“It’s too late for that.” Lydia crossed her arms with a steely gleam in her eye. “The Argents have already taken one home from me, and I won’t let them take another.”

Derek didn’t doubt her for a second. 

She turned to leave, but threw over her shoulder, “Send him to my chambers once you're done letting Isaac make a fool of himself.”

Derek internally winced at that, because if he ever found out about their charade, Isaac would be humiliated and furious. 

But Isaac grew up in the palace and knew the social pitfalls of royalty and how to avoid them. Stiles talked big, but he was new to everything in the royal world, and somehow, against his will, Derek had developed the inconvenient feeling that he should be protecting him from it all in some way. He trusted Isaac to keep Stiles safe from the social side of things; Derek just had to handle everything else.

“What are you going to do to him?” He’d known Lydia for over a decade, he knew it was a valid question that had to be asked.

She didn’t agree.

“I'm going to try and fix the damage you idiots have already done.” Her eyes narrowed. “Actually, you come too, and I'm assuming Scott is part of all this nonsense?” Derek didn't have to nod, she knew they both too well. “Bring him too. I need to straighten out all of you.”

She turned on her heel and was walking away before Derek could even begin to protest. Not that he was really going to, because Lydia was smarter than him, and thought things through more, and when her dress billowed out like that, she couldn’t be stopped by anything.

He should really just hand the crown over to her and be done with it.

*

It was reluctantly and with trepidation that Derek led Stiles to Lydia’s chambers. Scott stayed a few feet behind like he was about to run at any moment, but she opened the door before they’d even reached it, and pinned them down with a glare warning them against escape. The silent glare followed them through the doorway and as the door closed behind them with an ominous thud. The lock clicked as she turned the key.

It had been years since Derek last saw her study; once they reached the age of marriage, it became inappropriate for them to visit each other’s rooms as they weren’t blood relations, and their focuses and interests split their separate ways. Derek’s turned towards preparation to be king, diplomacy, military matters, and he’d assumed Lydia’s interest diverted into her own studies, but now that he saw the maps and volumes lining the walls, he realized their interests hadn’t really parted ways at all.

She probably should’ve been one of his advisors all along.

She was probably thinking the exact same thing.

“So, boys,” she began, and sat primly on one of the sofas. A cup of tea was sitting on the table before her, surrounded by piles of books on the north—more books than were in the library, so clearly she’d kept her own stash. She crossed her legs at the ankle and brushed imaginary fuzz from her skirt before meeting Derek’s eye. “Tell me your plan.”

*

Lydia officially thought they were all idiots, and Derek was almost ashamed to be facing her. He felt like he was back in school with their most strict tutor, who ordered him to recite impossible verse and theories just to poke holes in them all. Not that Lydia was intentionally trying to make them feel stupid, that just tended to happen around her.

They’d been with her for all of fifteen minutes, and already she had Stiles’ family crest sketched out, an approximate number of battles he should’ve participated in by his age, his education history, and most importantly, a name.

“And where have you placed this kingdom?” she asked, and Scott pointed on the map. “To the east, so it should sound more like _Przemysław_.” Stiles winced at the pronunciation and Scott frowned. Lydia rolled her eyes at them. “Get used to it, that’s your name now. Say it.”

“Przemysław,” Stiles repeated poorly. He clearly didn’t really care, which was his first mistake.

“No, _Przemysław.”_

He frowned. “ _Przemysław.”_

_“Przemysław.”_

“Przemysław.”

“ _Przemysław.”_

 _“Przemysław._ I’m pretty sure I’m saying it!”

“No, you’re not,” Lydia said like a threat. “ _Przemysław.”_

 _“Derek.”_ Stiles turned to him, clearly looking for help that he wasn’t going to get. Derek knew better than to go against Lydia when she was on a mission. He just shrugged, and Stiles narrowed his eyes at him, but continued. “ _Przemysław.”_

“Close. _Przemysław.”_

Scott was quietly laughing behind Stiles’ back.

*

Once she was satisfied with Stiles’ pronunciation of his new name, Lydia turned her sharp gaze to his person.

“Stand up,” she ordered, and Stiles only hesitated a second before he did so. He looked uncertain and kept meeting Scott's eye. Scott could only shrug unhelpfully.

Lydia took her time walking around him, studying him critically and taking her time—probably just to make them all more nervous. She was devious like that. She grabbed his bicep and squeezed, tugged at his hair a few times, knocked at the back of his knee with the side of her heel just to make him stumble.

“Well, I suppose he'll do,” she finally decided, ignoring Stiles’ mutinous glare. “I’ll have to fix his hair, of course—” Scott frowned “—and change his clothes. I think I know where to get some pieces that will work, because this—” she gestured to Stiles’ outfit “—isn’t northern.”

“Fur isn’t northern?” Scott asked, maybe a little bit offended, but they all knew how quickly thrown together their whisper of a plan had been. They didn’t really have anything to be offended over, and Stiles had almost reached a heat stroke twice.

Lydia already looked exhausted by their ignorance. “Not that kind of fur. They don’t have mink that far into the mountains. And this?” She plucked at Stiles’ shirt. “They wouldn’t have access to this color dye without a southern trading partner, which they aren’t supposed to have.”

She took a step back and considered him once more. “Hair should be longer, but we’ll make this work. The piercings—” Stiles’ eyes widened dramatically “—we can probably do without, but you’ll need an excuse if anyone asks why he doesn’t have them. I’ll find some appropriate weapons for him, those boots are all wrong, and why hasn’t he adapted to lighter clothing by now?” 

They all looked at each other instead of meeting her eye. She continued, untying Stiles’ jerkin and yanking it off while he looked confused and a little violated. “There’s no reason for this heavy leather anymore, you’re going to make him pass out in this heat. And we’ll have to find some convincing medallions for him to wear as necklaces. They’re common symbols of battle victories—the Argents will know that and be looking for them.”

She paused and looked around at them expectantly. “Why isn’t anyone writing all of this down?”

Scott scrambled to the desk and started frantically scribbling on the first piece of parchment he found, but Lydia had turned her considering gaze back to Stiles.

“You can read, right?”

*

That night, Derek and Stiles took their dinner in Derek’s private study, surrounded by piles of Lydia’s books on the north (which they kept hidden until after the servants had left—Stiles couldn’t exactly be seen studying his own homeland). They ate slowly, focused more on absorbing as much information as they could about the previously mysterious north, that really hadn’t been all that mysterious to Lydia’s people long ago.

Contact had gradually been lost as winters in the mountains worsened over the years and made travel too difficult, but there had been a vibrant relationship at one point, and like Lydia, her ancestors eagerly wrote down every tidbit they learned about their trading partners. There were journals with all kinds of notes of culture, from music to history to wars to clothing to...

“You know, when they’re written down, this food doesn’t sound so terrible,” Stiles mused, flipping through what appeared to be a section on cuisine. 

“Our chefs weren’t using those recipes.” Derek skimmed a page on war medallions, trying to think of anything he might have that could serve as a stand-in. “The books my family has are old and probably incredibly inaccurate. I had no idea Lydia had all of this, or we would’ve used them from the start.”

Hell, it was probably the ungodly stench of that fish dish and Stiles’ forced non-reaction that first tipped off Lydia to their poorly planned rouse. It was a miracle she’d made it through that first dinner without lobbing her wine goblet at Derek’s head right there in front of everyone.

“I might actually be able to keep this one down.” Stiles said, tipping the book for Derek to see what looked like some kind of stew.

“You can try that one on your own time. I’m not cleaning up your vomit again.”

“I got most of it in the toilet,” Stiles grumbled, but didn’t push the issue. He didn’t seem overly eager to indulge in any northern cuisine anytime soon.

Derek bookmarked the section on medallions with a slip of fabric, and grabbed the next volume in his stack.

“This one looks like clothing,” he told Stiles, and quickly flipped through to see if there was anything new that Lydia hadn’t already ordered them to fix. She had assured them that she would be able to round up the actual garments and most of the accessories, but there were some more royal aspects that she didn’t have access to. Like a crown, for example, which Derek would have to dig up from his family history. Preferably one that didn’t look so distinctly _Hale._

He was actually starting to feel a little more confident now that they had Lydia on their side. He didn’t feel quite as much like there was a sword dangling over his head, waiting to fall. At least until he reached the back of the journal.

It was the last few pages, and Derek had to stare at it for a solid few seconds before it really sunk in how much the Argents were going to kill them for even attempting this.

“Fuck,” Derek breathed, and couldn’t smile when Stiles jokingly shot back with _“Language.”_

Then Stiles caught on and leaned over to see what Derek had found.

“Fuck,” he said, staring at the man covered in intricate woven tattoos. They traced up both arms, onto his chest, his neck, down his back… An entire page was dedicated to the specific meaning of certain symbols, their placement, and on the facing page was an extensive diagram of significant piercings.

“Derek,” Stiles started after a very long silence. “I’m deathly afraid of needles.”

*

“Well we can't use that excuse,” Lydia said the next morning. She had Scott were joining Derek and Stiles for their usual breakfast. It was a cloudy morning, but still warm with a pleasant breeze.

Stiles looked significantly more at ease in the lighter, looser clothing Lydia had dressed him in, even if he kept touching his carefully styled hair. They couldn't do the ceremonial braids outlined in the Martin journals, Scott had cut his hair too short, but Lydia managed to come up with something.

She slapped his hand away from his hair. “A warrior prince who's afraid of needles isn't going to scare away the Argents from anything.”

“Maybe his people just don’t do the whole piercing and tattooing thing,” Scott suggested. “They’re way up in the mountains, no one wants frozen metal in their face up there.”

“That’s awfully convenient,” Derek said, and sipped his coffee. Stiles glared at him over the flowers in the center of the table and crossed his arms.

“I don’t care if it’s convenient, I’m not getting a tattoo.” Lydia looked at him with a bit of judgment. “My entire livelihood revolves around people not recognizing me! I can’t be a thief if someone can tell the guards that it was the one guy in the city with neck tattoos, I’d be ruined.”

“You might even have to learn a real skill and contribute to society,” Derek said dryly, and Stiles kicked him under the table.

“Remember how I’m doing you a huge favor and risking my life here? You should be paying me for this, for the rest of my life.”

“What’s the point? I think by now you’ve stolen enough of my valuables to live like royalty anyway.”

Stiles didn’t deny it and actually looked a little smug as he popped a piece of fruit into his mouth.

“What about a few piercings?” Lydia asked, switching tactics and approaching it diplomatically. “You can take them out after and they’ll close up like they were never there. It won’t affect your...career in the least.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Remember the part where I will fucking pass out around needles?”

“Language,” Scott muttered and was ignored.

“Great, we get them all done while you’re unconscious.”

“You wouldn’t.”

She smirked. “Try me. I'll do it right here if I have to.”

“You carry around needles and earrings?” Stiles clearly didn't believe her, but then, he also didn't know her. Derek fully believed her when she said she would do anything to keep the Argents from taking a second home from her.

“No, but there's an army of servants who could fetch them for me, just outside that door.” Her smirk turned a little mean. “What are you going to do, pass out?”

Scott looked unsure about the direction things were going, and Derek was thinking about stepping in. He didn't want to actually assault and traumatize Stiles.

Stiles reared back from her. “You're actually insane.”

“No, I'm a survivor. That's something you should understand, _thief.”_

_*_

By the time Derek finished with his day full of meetings, Stiles had four new, small golden hoops along the edge of his left ear. According to the books, that signified leading four successful campaigns with distinction. They were creating a warrior prince who had never seen a war.

He still looked a little woozy over dinner.

“My second act as your husband,” he declared, “is banishing Lydia from the territory.”

Derek leaned back from inspecting the fresh piercings. They were still red and angry, but hopefully would calm down by the time anyone else had to see them up close.

“I’m sorry,” Derek said sincerely. He hadn’t wanted to cause Stiles pain like this. “I didn’t think she would really do it. I thought she would find a way to fake it.”

Stiles pressed the cold and damp towel against his ear again, looking understandably disgruntled. “She said the Argents would be pissed you beat them to the north, and be looking for any sign of deception. I’m just lucky I woke up without any tattoos.”

Derek was going to be having a stern discussion with Lydia about what was and wasn’t acceptable under the umbrella of desperation and survival. Especially when the Argents were still weeks away from any kind of confrontation. They were desperate, but not _that_ _desperate._

“That won’t happen again,” Derek promised, silently swearing to do everything he could to keep that promise.

Stiles grinned wryly. “You can’t make that promise, but thanks.”

“No, but I’ll do everything I can to stop it.” Stiles was clearly caught off guard by that answer. “You’re risking your life to help me, Stiles. I should do the same.”

Stiles was quiet for a moment, meeting Derek’s gaze with a stillness that was unexpected from him, and his eyes were surprisingly soft when they were normally hard and sharp. Then he finally grinned, back to his cocky self.

“Damn right, you should.” He leaned back in his chair, and made a show of nursing his reddened ear. “I’ve suffered for you, the least you could do is give me, say, the crown’s ceremonial dagger?”

Derek’s face dropped into a glare that was only half serious. “Where’s my dagger, Stiles.”

Stiles’ eyes widened to the picture of innocence. “Right where you left it, Derek.”

*

As it turned out, they were rapidly approaching _that desperate._ Every day, the reports of the Argents’ movements became more and more urgent as they picked up their pace through kingdoms that immediately bowed to their strength. They were moving faster than anyone predicted, and with still no word from Erica and Boyd scouting the north, Derek was quickly losing faith.

He tried to hide it, kept up his determined front for his advisors, for Lydia and Stiles, but it wasn’t really all that convincing. The Argents were practically at their doorstep, his head would be the first on the chopping block, and Stiles would follow quickly behind for his part in the rouse.

“At least my last month has been living like royalty,” Stiles shrugged over dinner, digging into Derek’s chocolate mousse after finishing his own. He had much more of a sweet tooth and appreciated it more than Derek ever could after a lifetime of such decadent desserts. Or, Derek assumed he could. He actually didn’t know...practically anything about Stiles’ life outside of the palace.

“What would it have been otherwise?”

Stiles washed down his bite by practically chugging a very expensive wine. At least his mouth wasn’t full when he spoke. 

“You know, the usual. Thieving, selling, running for my life from the people who see me…”

He was remarkably good at not saying all that much.

“But where do you live?” Derek pressed. “Do you have any family? Friends?”

Stiles looked a little uncomfortable, but he hid it well. “I had a room down by the docks, but it’s probably long gone by now. No family, a few fellow thieves—not much to say about it.” He absently stirred his mouse until all of the air was gone from it and it was more of a paste than a dessert. “No one like Scott or Lydia, not anyone I’d want to see before the end.”

Derek frowned. “That sounds lonely.” He’d always been constantly surrounded by people who cared, wanted him to be safe and healthy and as happy as he could be as a royal. He didn’t know what a solitary existence was like, even after the loss of his family. There had always been the hole where they should’ve been, always would be, but he did have Scott and Lydia, Isaac, Erica and Boyd...

Stiles shrugged again, trying to look nonchalant. “Never really thought about it, but I guess.”

He took another gulp of his wine, and Derek only noticed after he set the glass back down that it was actually his. After his sisters, he never thought he’d...enjoy the feeling that came with someone so shamelessly and thoughtlessly stealing his food. Back then, he’d only felt annoyance, but now…

“I’m glad you’re here,” Derek said before he lost the nerve. “You’ve made this...easier.” Not really, but something like it.

Stiles squinted at him. “I’ve made your life infinitely more difficult by being here.”

“It was going to be difficult either way, at least it’s more entertaining with you.”

“Well, for what’s it’s worth—” he waffled for a second, bobbing his head back and forth like he was stalling “—if I’m going to be beheaded by the enemy, I’d rather it be with a friend. Or, you know,” he threw a hand out, trying to play it cool, “a fake fiancé.”

Derek couldn’t help smiling, and since they were uncomfortably confessing things on the edge of inevitable death...

“For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t mind you staying. Assuming we aren’t beheaded together, of course.”

“Of course,” Stiles agreed, playing along but with that unusual softness in his eyes as he leaned in slightly. “And you know, I wouldn’t mind staying—and not just because I have nowhere else to go.”

Derek held his gave for a moment before sitting back in his chair.

“Sometimes I wish you really were a prince,” he confessed quietly, and couldn’t help looking down at his lips when Stiles smiled; a real smile, not a smirk or a cocky grin.

“I think this is the first time we’ve ever agreed on something.”

Derek smiled in return. “We have really terrible timing.”

Stiles nodded. “We really, really do.”

*

When the Argents finally came, it wasn’t the surprise volley of fire and pain that everyone was expecting. That would’ve been too easy, too predictable, so they camped out on the crest of the hills, their banners catching just enough wind to unfurl and be fully visible to guards and any civilian who happened to turn their gaze that direction.

But they didn’t attack, not the first day, or the second once the wind died down, and not the third when the sky turned cloudy and the breeze cooled off a little.

The anticipation was driving Derek insane.

“What are they doing out there?” he demanded of no one, leaning out of his dining room so he could see the hills just past the corner of the palace. “Why haven't they sent someone or attacked?” 

The suspense was worse than an actual attack. He knew they were doing it intentionally, the Argents had always loved toying with their enemies, and he was falling right into their trap. It was driving him nuts.

“Want me to find out?”

Derek straightened back over the railing to frown at Stiles coming up beside him. “What do you mean?”

“I can get into their camp, scope things out.” He shrugged like that was easy, like popping down to the market for a spare apple. “I’ll be in and out before they know I’m there.”

God, he was actually serious.

“Stiles, do not go anywhere near that camp,” Derek ordered, turning to fully face Stiles, hopefully make him understand. “They kill anyone who crosses them in anyway, if you're found out—”

“They're not going to find me.” He seemed shockingly cavalier about all of this. “Remember how I was a thief until a month ago?”

“A month?” Derek's indignation and need to bicker was taking over his fear. Stiles tended to have that effect on him. “You stole my pocket watch two days ago.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he said, clearly lying and not even trying to hide it.

Derek tried another tactic. “You realize that this entire marriage alliance sham relies on you being here, right? That's the entire reason you're here.”

Stiles grinned his stupid, cocky grin and patted Derek’s shoulder obnoxiously. “Relax, I'll be back in two days. Maybe three.” 

And it wasn’t until after he’d left that Derek realized he really should’ve kissed him.

*

The next three days weren’t Derek’s finest, he could admit that to himself. It wasn’t only the fact that Stiles had run off into the night without a second thought (though that certainly didn’t help), but word was spreading quickly through the city that an attack was imminent, and the people were panicking. He couldn’t blame them, the Argents were notoriously ruthless to any who stood against them, and Derek, stupidly, was attempting to stand against them.

The palace was an anxious frenzy desperately trying to act normal, Derek hadn’t slept in days, and every waking moment was spent with advisors, poring over the latest reports from all corners of the territory.

“They won’t attack first,” Lydia warned them. Having had first hand experience and a shockingly strategic mind, she was enthusiastically invited into their meetings. “They have a code against it, but it’s been twisted by Gerard. They’ll goad you into provoking them anyway they can, and claim they were innocently defending themselves until the moment Derek’s head hits the ground.”

Derek swallowed down the very strong reactions he had to that image. He had to focus on his people. “Once it begins, how much time will it take to evacuate?”

“Not long,” Scott answered. He’d been spending the last week in the city among the people, planning, preparing, making note of exactly what everyone was doing. “Most have their belongings packed already, they’ve been assigned ships to run to in case of attack. The fishermen and traders have all volunteered to take as many as they can by sea.”

Derek nodded and turned to Jackson. “The men?”

“In good spirits, despite everything. They’re ready to defend their home.” Jackson paused, looking uncertain. “Any word on allied reinforcements from the north?”

They hadn’t asked to often, probably not wanting to embarrass their king about his dud of an alliance. A warrior prince who (as far as they knew) fell ill at first sight of a war, a fierce allied kingdom waffling about sending troops through the mountains—any hope or excitement about the upcoming marriage had tapered off to disappointment.

“You all will know the moment I do,” Derek answered, and tried not to feel like a failure at the way their faces fell.

*

The next day, the Argents made their move; not with weapons, but with a small delegation waiting patiently at the gate. They allowed the guards to walk them to the palace, went through all of the security protocols without complaint, and dipped into a small, respectful bow when they finally stood before the court as guests.

Derek didn’t trust them for a second.

They were announced as King Gerard and his daughter Princess Katherine, accompanied by their aides, and they came in peace. 

“We hope our presence on your border hasn't caused you any concern,” Gerard said mildly, but there was a hard threat in his voice. “That land is a recent acquisition in an agreement, and we like to make sure our borders are secure.”

“Quite the contrary,” Derek responded, feigning good nature. “We welcome new neighbors, and hope to see a long-standing, mutually beneficial relationship come from this.”

He refused to let them know the impact they'd already had on his people, the way Lydia had grown stiffer and sharper as her worst memories seemed to be playing out around her, all over again. She still stood with the court, only a few feet from Derek's side, but he could hear her carefully measured breaths as she forced herself to remain calm.

“Sounds like an alliance.” Gerard smiled and his eyes crinkled, but there was no light behind them. “Do you have room for another?”

“There's always room for peace.”

“Speaking of,” Princess Katherine stepped forward with an almost sultry purr. “Where is your betrothed? We were hoping to meet your northern prince we hear so much about.”

Already looking for cracks in the story. Why hadn't Stiles returned yet?

“He’s taken ill the last few days,” Derek explained. “I’m sure you will make his acquaintance soon enough.”

They didn’t buy it, he could tell, but they didn’t push. They were probably just letting him dig himself deeper into his hole of lies so they could catch him in as many lies as possible when the moment finally came to publicly behead him in the square.

(Or they knew something he didn’t about Stiles’ whereabouts, but Derek refused to entertain the idea that Stiles had been captured.)

“I’m deeply sorry to hear that, we’ve heard such wonderful things about him.” Katherine’s concern couldn’t be more transparent. “Maybe we could postpone for a night? See if he’s feeling better tomorrow?” She phrased it as if Derek had any options other than accepting, and beamed when he nodded. “Just let us know if he needs anything, we have very accomplished doctors traveling with us.”

He graciously thanked them for their offer and saw them off to their guest chambers in the south wing before retreating to hide in his own apartment. He needed to escape before anyone found him and demanded answers, he needed quiet, he needed to break down and cry where no one would see him, and wish that his parents were still alive to handle this for him.

He made it to his door, threw off the outer layers of his clothes once he was finally alone in the darkened chambers, and sighed brokenly as the day caught up with him.

He couldn’t do this. He was in way over his head, he couldn’t save anyone. He might as well walk right across the palace to the south wing and negotiate a way to trade his life for his peoples’. The Argents probably wouldn’t keep their word, but at least he could say he tried from beyond the grave. At least he would finally be with his family again. At least—

He stopped short as he reached his bedroom, immediately noticing the dark silhouette standing against the windows.

There was a scraggly bearded vagrant in his bedroom.

Just standing there, holding his gold letter opener. Flipping it around through his grimy fingers like—

 _“Stiles?”_ He turned up the light and took a confused step forward.

“Derek!” The vagrant took a step into the the light.

He sounded like Stiles, he moved like Stiles, but so far Stiles wasn’t capable of growing a year’s deployment worth of beard in three days.

“Beard,” Derek said intelligently.

Stiles’ eyebrows furrowed for a second, he probably frowned, then, “Ah, paid off a blacksmith.” he yanked at the beard and it came right off, revealing a few days of patchy stubble underneath. Something clicked in Derek’s brain, and that was definitely Stiles.

“Paid him off with what?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“Nothing with sentimental value, don't worry.”

Derek narrowed his eyes and stepped forward to take his letter opener back. He resisted the urge to pat Stiles down for anything else, like priceless jewelry or medallions, or any injuries he might have.

“Did you find anything?” he asked instead.

“I managed to copy down some of their favorite military maneuvers, but other than that, probably nothing we didn’t already know. They’re trying to psych you out with the waiting, then they’ll come in for dinner, try to worm their way under your skin while poking holes in our story—which they don’t believe at all,” he added. “We’re going to have to really go for it while they’re here if we want to—”

“They’re already here,” Derek interrupted flatly, and Stiles stopped. “They arrived this afternoon, they’re in the south wing.”

“That’s a day sooner than anyone at the camp was saying.”

“Do you think they saw you?”

“And did nothing? I should be dead, right?”

“Probably.” Derek couldn’t put into words how grateful he was that he wasn’t.

“So we’re..probably okay, right?”

“I guess we’ll find out tomorrow.”

Stiles nodded, more to himself, like he was trying to find some reassurance in what he was saying. “I’d better get these to Lydia,” he said finally, patting his chest where the military maneuvers were probably tucked in safely. Even in the dim light from the gas lamps, Derek could see a cloud of dust wheeze forth from the fabric and rain down on his clean floor. “And clean off some of this dirt,” Stiles added. He poked at the ring of dirt with his boot, smearing it into cracks in the wood.

“Just get out of here,” Derek snapped without anger, lightly shoving Stiles towards the hall to the bathroom. He assumed his secret passages were somewhere back there, and belatedly realized that he’d never actually made him give the full tour. 

Didn’t really matter now, anyway. The less Derek knew about the palace and its secrets, the less he could give up to the Argents under torture.

“Derek?” He turned back at Stiles’ voice, and his face was set in an uncharacteristically serious frown. “We can’t surrender,” he said finally, and didn’t disappear into the darkness until Derek nodded.

*

Their private breakfast was tense the next morning, with the cloud of the Argents hanging over them. The only reprieve from the crushing knowledge that their time was so limited was the time Stiles spent practicing a convincing cough to match the illness he was supposed to be shaking off.

“Do we have any walnuts?” he asked, solely to make Derek smile. “I’m allergic to walnuts and my voice always sounds weird after I eat them. Or! I could eat a bunch and go into full anaphylactic shock during the second course and completely throw them off! How are they going to prove I’m lying if I’m unconscious and can’t answer any of their questions?”

Derek smiled into his hand and tried to ignore the fact that he was hopelessly charmed by this idiot, right before they would probably be killed in horrible and bloody ways.

*

Even though the Argents had arrived the day before, Stiles’ return to the court warranted a full welcoming procession—at their request. They were definitely up to something, but they were keeping up appearances and feigning ignorance, so Derek put on his ceremonial dress and crown, and trudged out to the grand hall like it was his execution, which it could very well be. 

Halfway there, Stiles met him coming from the east wing, dressed in the _new_ northern garb that Lydia had organized. The colors were more muted, the fur more tasteful and wild, and the gold chains of war medallions peeked out at the base of his throat. It did look much better than when Scott and Derek had thrown together, almost like he was actually a northern prince. Except…

Derek took his hand out from behind his back to reveal a crown to fit Stiles. It wasn’t Hale, he was pretty sure it had been taken as a war trophy at some point centuries before, but it was clean and understated, a little rough like the north, but still had its elegance.

Stiles hesitated when he realized that Derek was already wearing his crown and that this second was indeed for him.

“We’re not married yet,” he reminded him, and quite irrationally and without reason, it felt like an accusation. 

“You’re still a prince, you need your crown.”

“I have a small head.”

“I had it adjusted.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes, but didn’t try to move away when Derek raised it up to place it on his head. It fit perfectly, because Lydia had an uncanny eye for sizing and might’ve actually measured his head while he was unconscious from the piercings. Derek wouldn't put it past her.

“It suits you,” Derek said, and it almost felt real.

“They’re ready for you!” Isaac hissed, suddenly appearing at the end of the hall, and vanished again before either of them really registered him being there.

“Ready?” Derek offered his hand, and Stiles didn’t hesitate before taking it in his own.

“I am ready,” he said in his stupid accent, and they pushed through the grand doors together.

*

This time the Argents had more of a procession to present themselves, much more fanfare for their arrival. Ceremonial weapons, guards, servants seemingly carrying gifts… Derek wasn't sure how they all got through the palace gates without him being notified, but he didn't intend to let it happen again.

“We’re pleased to see you’re feeling better,” Gerard said to Stiles, who nodded pleasantly.

When the king gestured, a servant stepped forward from the back of the group carrying a heavy and ornate pot. The poor man looked like he’d been holding it for a long time, his arms shaking with the strain.

“To celebrate your union,” Katherine offered, voice syrupy sweet and up to something. She lifted the lid, steam billowed forth, and everyone around them staggered back in unison. There were gasps and gags from the crowd, and even Scott looked like he was having trouble keeping his face neutral.

It was only years of diplomacy and training that kept Derek from showing his disgust at the shockingly foul stench emanating from that pot. Beside him, Stiles forced down a dry heave and stilled for a moment. He looked like he was weighing the likelihood of projectile vomiting all over their guests, debating whether to make a dash for the nearest bathroom. His last encounter with that distinct odor hadn’t ended well for anyone.

“What is this,” Stiles asked in his accent. Derek was surprised at his restraint from cursing like the dockworkers.

“You don’t recognize it?” Katherine asked with a calculating and utterly fake smile. “It’s a northern delicacy.”

“Not my northern,” Stiles countered with an equally fake smile of his own, and gestured for the gift to be handed off to Isaac. Isaac waved it on to the next servant in line. “We have many cultures beyond the mountains.”

If that caught her off guard, Katherine didn’t show it. “I apologize, I meant no offense.”

“No offense taken. I know there is little known here about my people.”

That seemed to catch Katherine’s interest. “I hope there’s been no offense during your time here.” She said it almost sincerely, but more like she was fishing. And right in front of Derek, too. Clearly she didn’t think much of the Hales or their legacy.

“Do not worry, King Derek has been a gracious and welcoming host.”

Katherine’s smile was almost sickly. “I’m so glad you’ve found our shores to be welcoming.”

“These are not your shores,” Stiles reminded her, and she winked as she responded,

“Not yet.”

Their stony expressions just made her smirk grow.

*

They retreated to the grand dining room for dinner, and also somewhat to escape the lingering stench of whatever dish the Argents had cursed the palace halls with. Even with imminent death hanging on the horizon—literally, that’s where their army was stationed—Derek couldn’t help but feel a little glad that at least the Argents were working from the same, outdated information about the north that he had been. They didn’t have allies above the mountains, or Lydia on their side with her journals of more appealing recipes.

The dinner was everything Derek hated about diplomacy. No one was sincere, everyone was on edge, and there was a tense air of competition and judgment filling the hall like a dense fog settled in a valley. Forced laughs, backhanded compliments, innuendos, and politics—the only thing that made it bearable was having Stiles there, catching his eye and conveying with an eyebrow twitch everything Derek wanted to say aloud.

It was clear that Stiles wanted to jump into the conversation constantly. He was practically vibrating with the need to interject, say what he really thought, but he was still supposed to have a limited grasp on the language. He couldn’t exactly jump into complex political debates when just a month before he’d been smiling politely at _good morning,_ not when the Argents were watching him so closely for any slipup, any sign that he wasn’t who he claimed to be.

But just as closely as they watched Stiles, Derek watched them. Gerard and Katherine whispered to each other often, gesturing unspecifically towards something and smiling conspiratorially. They always had an excuse when they realized they’d been caught, whether admiring a painting or commenting on the difference in how the food was served, but Derek knew they were just trying to get under his skin. Trying to provoke him.

He refused to be the first to break, so he kept things pleasant and polite. When he noticed Gerard gesturing to his plate, Derek innocently asked,

“Is there something wrong with your meal?”

The king’s lack of surprise implied he got exactly the reaction he wanted, and Derek kicked himself for falling into his trap.

“Oh no,” Gerard waved away his concern. “I was just hoping to experience the delicacies of the great wild north. All of this appears to be local.”

“You wouldn't want our heavy stews in this heat,” Stiles said with a wry grin.

“Well, I’ll just have to come back when the weather changes,” Gerard said with a smarmy sneer. “Through all of my travels, my favorite part has always been trying the local cuisine. I’ve been to the islands, the planes, the peninsula...I was hoping to try something new.”

“You spend quite a bit of time on the road, it seems,” Derek observed. On the road, conquering anyone they happened upon, just to say they did.

Gerard smiled knowingly and swirled his wine in the glass, watching how it settled. “My son and granddaughter are holding the throne for me back to the west. I have all the time in the world.”

An absent king who let others shoulder the responsibility of ruling and supporting and protecting his people. Not all that surprising.

“You’re lucky to have such a close knit family,” Lydia said pleasantly. Or it seemed pleasant on the surface; to Derek after knowing her for over a decade, he could see the steel beneath her warm smile.

“We Argents hold family above all else.” Gerard seemed inordinately pleased about that, especially sitting at a table of people he knew had lost their own families. “There is no stronger bond than blood.”

He didn’t look like he was paying attention, but Stiles’ eyebrows briefly, judgingly, jumped at that.

“You don’t agree, your Highness?” Katherine asked pointedly, and Stiles looked up, feigning surprise and confusion.

“I’m sorry?”

“You don’t believe that blood is the strongest bond? Family?” Her voice steadily got louder, a little slower, in a very condescending manner.

“That depends on the family,” Stiles said, also pointedly.

“And what about your family?” Gerard asked, looking far too interested in the answer. Stiles didn’t hesitate.

“My father and I are quite close.”

If the Argents were disappointed by the lack of elaboration, they didn’t immediately show it. At least not until everyone else had moved on to other topics and Katherine leaned in close to Derek and hissed,

“I don’t know how far you intend to take this charade, but we know you have nothing. Your prince is nothing, your army is nothing, _you_ are nothing. You have no chance, _Derek,_ and once we’re done, your pathetic little kingdom will finally be erased from the map.” She smiled sweetly and dabbed at her mouth like the most refined lady of the court.

She was too focused on watching Derek's reaction to see the way Stiles’ face went hard beside her. The mischief and mirth that usually lurked in his eyes vanished, and for the first time, Derek really understood that Stiles grew up alone on the streets, fighting to survive as a thief. He assumed Stiles had never seen real violence and wouldn't survive on a battlefield, but right then, he wondered if his thief had ever taken a life before.

But Katherine saw none of that. Not his expression, not the way his quick fingers moved without drawing attention, nor the flash of metal in Stiles’ lap as he pulled the dagger out from under his napkin.

 _The Argents will do everything to provoke you to attack first,_ Lydia had said, and Stiles was going to do just that.

Until the heavy wooden doors burst open with a bang and a scout stumbled in with wide eyes.

“My king! A foreign banner has arrived from the north!” he cried, and the room went silent.

Derek froze, his heart clenching in his chest. This was it, the moment it all came crashing down. The north decided that whatever poor, southern kingdom was seeking an alliance was worth attacking, and unlike the Argents looking for access to the sea with minimal resistance, they had no reason to leave the locals alive.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Stiles down his entire glass of wine.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Derek nodded to the Argents, politely bowing away from the table. He held out a hand to Stiles, who accepted it and squeezed as he stood.

Argents in one room, an actual northern army in the next. There was no way this didn’t end in their deaths.

As they passed a waiting tray of glasses of wine in the corridor, Stiles snagged one more and gulped it down as they walked closer and closer to the heavy wooden door separating them from the grand hall. On the other side of that door stood a northern king, a real northern king, and he probably wouldn’t show mercy to the fools impersonating his people.

They had just twenty feet until it all became far too real.

“Derek, wait.” Stiles stopped walking, and his hand pulled Derek back a step to face him. Stiles didn’t continue immediately, seemed to be bracing himself for everything coming towards them, and Derek waited patiently. Whatever Stiles had to say, he desperately wanted to hear, and not just to stall for time.

“Um,” Stiles looked at his empty wine glass like he desperately wished it was full again. “So we’re probably about to die.”

Derek nodded. “We probably are.”

“And I’m probably never going to get another chance to say this.”

He nodded again. “Probably not.”

“So it doesn’t really matter what happens, because we’re dying anyway.” Stiles took a deep breath squeezing Derek’s hand a little harder. Derek squeezed back, hoping it came off as more encouraging than outright fear.

“So if I were to say that I, say, love you…”

Derek’s throat caught, and it took everything to swallow down the need to cry. Big, ugly tears at the unfairness of his life, their situation, the fact that he hadn’t managed to find Stiles without all of horrible parts of reality pressing down on them. The fact that they hadn’t even begun everything they both clearly wanted.

He swallowed, finally, blinked away the emotion that made it all a little too real, and answered hoarsely,

“It probably wouldn’t matter that I love you too.”

Stiles nodded, slowly, like that was exactly what he was expecting to hear but it still didn’t bring him any joy. 

“Well this fucking sucks,” he said with a watery smile, and Derek had to agree.

“It really fucking sucks.”

“Probably should’ve done this a month ago.”

“We didn’t even like each other a month ago.”

Stiles dipped his head to the side in reluctant agreement. “You were kind of a dick.”

Derek couldn’t help laughing. “You stole everything you saw!”

“Just the good stuff! Actually, speaking of…” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out Derek’s pocket watch. “You should probably at least have this back, everything else is stashed in weird places that’ll probably never be found, but this looks sentimental.”

It was. It was the pocket watch Derek’s father gave him just months before he lost his entire family. The thought of getting it back only to lose everything and everyone all over again wasn’t much of a comfort.

“Keep it,” he said, and pushed it back, maybe let his hand linger a little too long on Stiles’. “At least you’ll get to enjoy it for maye ten minutes longer than I would.”

Stiles smiled but he didn’t look happy about it. “I hate that I find you funny,” he said, and pulled Derek in for a kiss, wrapping his arms around his neck because his hands were full of a stolen watch and an empty wine glass. 

Derek did the same, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ waist not because his hands were full, but just to pull him closer, to feel him for the first and last time before they were inevitably ripped apart for good. Whether it be by Argents or northerners, there were very little hope they would make it out alive.

As if they knew what was happening in the corridor, whoever was waiting on the other side of that door got louder, voices rumbling, boots thudding—they were impatient and not pleased that they were being kept waiting.

Derek reluctantly pulled away and closed his eyes against the impulse to dive right back in for more. Stiles sighed quietly and muttered, “Your adoring public awaits.”

Derek couldn’t help but smile at that, and briefly squeezed Stiles’ hand once more before turning to face what awaited them beyond the doors.

His mind had been busily painting pictures of hulking, tattooed warriors crowded into the hall, his own people held hostage, maybe even dead. Weapons drawn, guards waiting to seize them as soon as they entered, a foreign king demanding to know who falsified an alliance and why.

Instead it was fairly calm, and whoever had been making such a racket immediately quieted when the doors opened. There were a few huddled groups of men in foreign garb, but their weapons were holstered, and they didn’t seem to be on guard in the least. Isaac was speaking with a few, Scott a few more—Derek immediately spotted Erica and Boyd; her wild bright hair and his dark skin standing out stark against the dull fur and heavy dress of the fair skinned men surrounding them.

They were safe and looked healthy and cared for. Erica was beaming in a very promising way.

The men from the north weren’t frosty giants towering above everyone else, they didn’t carry massive weapons that dragged along the ground, they weren’t heavily tattooed, no intricate braids, and there didn’t seem to be any system of piercings among them. They looked like Derek’s people, if a little paler and wearing more layers, but there was no great difference marking them as the other.

One of them turned as Derek and Stiles drew closer, and just by his posture alone, Derek could tell he was their leader. He wore no crown, his sword looked like all the rest, but there was something about him that radiated power and authority in a way that Gerard Argent just couldn’t achieve.

He strode forward as Derek approached and held out his hand. “King Derek Hale, from what I hear.” Derek nodded and he continued, “I’m King Jonathan Stilinski.”

“From the north,” Derek noted, and realized that Stiles’ accent was atrocious.

“The mountains,” King Jonathan said, and turned to Stiles coming up behind. “And you are?”

“Prince Przemysław,” Stiles said, in as best an imitation of Lydia’s pronunciation as he could. His confidence was shaken in front of someone actually northern and he stumbled a bit.

The king grinned, but not in an unkind way. “Not quite, but close.” He took a step closer and tipped his head to the side to study Stiles’ ear. The redness had faded, but the piercings were still visibly fresh upon close inspection. He straightened with humor in his eyes. “I haven’t seen rings like these since my grandfather’s days. Who are you really?”

There was no point in continuing to lie, so Derek nodded subtly, hopefully signalling to Stiles that he would stand by him and shoulder as much blame as he possibly could. Whether he understood all that from the nod or not, Stiles answered honestly in his own voice,

“Stiles. From about an hour away by the docks.”

There was a single shocked gasp from their small audience, and judging by his look of utter betrayal, it could only have come from Isaac. When he met Derek's eye, there was only rage and a promise of words later.

If they survived the night, Derek would be making this up to him for the rest of their lives.

The northern king didn’t care about their internal dramatics though. He merely stepped back from Stiles and cast a considering look over him, then Derek.

“You forged my prince to stave off the Argents.”

Derek nodded again. There was no better way to paint that. “We needed an alliance, and every one of our neighbors has already fallen.”

The king raised his eyebrows like he was impressed. “That’s quite the bluff. And quite the attention to detail.” He nodded towards Stiles and his ear. “Those look fresh.”

“You should see my tattoo,” Stiles quipped back, and looked like he immediately regretted it. “Fuck, I don’t have a tattoo,” he corrected immediately. “Please don’t ask to see it, I already passed out with the piercings, I couldn’t handle a tattoo.” Stiles turned to Derek, looking a little frantic. “Make me stop talking!”

The king chuckled, but it sounded like he was genuinely amused rather than about to kill them for sport.

“It’s been several generations since we tattooed our warriors. We found it hard to find allies while covered in ink.”

Was that...a gleam of amusement in his eye? That wasn’t what Derek was expecting from this conversation. But wherever he was going with that gleam, Derek didn’t find out, because at that moment, the door he’d just come through burst open and King Gerard Argent strode through with bravado and confidence he shouldn’t have had.

The Argent party crowded in behind him, all standing tall and proud, no doubt thrilled to be catching Derek in his tangled lies as they were all about to fall on shaky foundations. He hated that there was an audience for this.

“King Jonathan,” Gerard said with a little too much gravitas. And since he hadn’t been in the room for introductions, he must’ve had someone listening at the door before he entered. “I welcome you to our southern shores.”

The northern king accepted his outstretched hand and shook it firmly, meeting his eyes confidently. “From what I hear, these aren’t your shores to welcome me to.”

It was only a lifetime of diplomacy that kept Derek’s face neutral, and beside him, Stiles squeaked quietly and shifted to disguise it with his boot on the polished stone floor. Scott looked like he was biting every part of the inside of his mouth he could reach to keep his smile from showing.

The northern king seemed to be on their side.

If the response caught Gerard off guard, he didn’t show it. “Well, we’re still working out the kinks, but we think we can come to a solution that benefits everyone.”

It was sickening how warm and friendly he could seem when he really tried.

“I don’t see how giving up their land benefits King Derek and his people in the least.” The northern king took a step back, towards Derek and Stiles. “In fact, it seems to me that they have very little say in the matter.”

Gerard smiled his slimy baring of teeth. “I can assure you, we’ve already discussed our agreement at great length. All parties would walk away happy.”

“Is that what you call surrendering all control of their ports?”

Derek had no idea how the king knew about that, but he was so grateful to Erica and Boyd for apparently outlining the situation in detail.

“I don’t know how you do it here in the south, but where I come from, we call that an invasion, and I didn’t send my son here just for his future kingdom to fall to invaders.”

At least the Argents were too preoccupied by their own surprise to notice Derek’s or Stiles’.

“Your son?” Katherine echoed with disbelief.

“My son,” King Jonathan repeated with a touch of a sadistic pleasure at her shock. “Prince Przemysław Stilinski, the heir to my throne.” He put an arm around Stiles’ shoulders for good measure, and gave a little reassuring squeeze. Stiles looked like he was about to pass out, but hopefully it wasn’t obvious to those who didn’t know him.

“Your throne.” Katherine seemed to be stuck in some kind of echoing loop.

“My throne. To the north,” the king added helpfully before turning to Derek. “I know we’ve arrived ahead of schedule so I understand if your people aren’t prepared to accommodate us, but my army has traveled far through the mountains to get here.”

“Of course,” Derek nodded, playing along. “Isaac, see to it that his men are provided for.”

Isaac still looked a little sore over the lie, but he nodded and waved for a number of servants to follow him from the hall.

The last two months had been spent stockpiling necessities for the seemingly inevitable attack; if the northern warriors could avert a war, Derek would give them all the stockpiled food and water he possibly could. He would open his palace and give up his own bed if they asked.

Next, the northern king turned to a man standing just behind him and ordered quietly but still loud enough for the Argents to hear: “Send riders to the north and inform our allies that we’ve arrived safely and they can stand down.”

The man nodded and quickly exited the hall with three other soldiers, moving perfectly in unison so their boots combined echoed through the high ceilings. It was truly impressive how much power and confidence the king had revealed so shortly after arriving.

Derek just hoped it wouldn’t be turned on his people next.

The Argents made a quick exit after that display. A messenger of their own hurried in and whispered something in Gerard’s ear, and he smoothly and swiftly excused himself and his people. Whether they were retreating or regrouping remained to be seen, but with the military maneuvers Stiles had managed to steal, Derek was feeling almost cautiously optimistic.

“Your Highness,” King Jonathan said, looking nothing but respectful, like he considered Derek his equal. It was a stark difference from how the Argents had treated him. “I came all this way on the promise of an alliance.” He tipped his head towards Erica and Boyd. “I hope I haven’t come too late.”

Derek smiled widely in relief, and firmly shook the offered hand.

“You’re just in time.”

*

They abandoned the interrupted feast in the grand dining room, and instead took a smaller, more intimate meal on the terrace. King Jonathan only brought a few of his men, Derek and Stiles brought Lydia a few advisors for beginning the discussions of terms, and together they sipped wine and watched the Argent banners and torches slowly retreat from the darkening horizon.

In the distance, blanketing the hills, were the neat and orderly camps set up by the northern soldiers, and based on the last update sent by Isaac, Derek’s men were already extending the first cautious offers of friendship that bridged even the largest of language barriers: food and alcohol.

It was a good thing the Argents were leaving, because Derek had the sneaking suspicion that neither army from the north or south would be in peak fighting form come morning.

Up on the terrace, Derek and Stiles extended a more verbal offer of friendship: self-deprecation through the long, winding tale of how a thief became a northern prince. At first they were cautious about revealing too much, not wanting to risk offending the northern king, but once he asked why Stiles was dressed like his very northern ancestors, they felt they had to be honest.

Luckily the king wasn’t offended, and the more he heard about the entire charade, the more he seemed to enjoy it. He even offered the recipe of his people’s salve they used for generations to prevent infection in healing piercings and tattoos.

Then the conversation finally shifted to business, namely the alliance, and why a northern king would personally travel so far south to such a small nation.

“Fishing is becoming difficult in the northern sea,” he explained bluntly. “We need access to new waters and supplies. I was told you have the sea in abundance, and plenty of trading partners to the south. We would be willing to open up new lines of communication and travel through the mountains, and lend our military support and that of our existing allies against the Argents.”

“You seem to be familiar with them,” Stiles pointed out, and Derek had to agree. The king hadn’t hesitated before standing against the would-be invaders.

“Ten years ago, the Argents sent scouts across the mountains,” he began, “with the intent to invade anything they found. They attacked us, killed as many as they could before we stopped them, and the Argents never cared. They never sent anyone after them, never even tried to retrieve their dead—it was shameful. They sent good men, unprepared, into our wilderness on a whim, and too many died for it.”

“Who did you lose?” Stiles asked quietly, and the king studied him for a second before answering,

“My son.” 

His words hung heavy in the silence, and Derek felt Stiles’ leg start to jiggle nervously against his. They hadn’t just impersonated an heir, they’d impersonated the king’s actual dead son. 

“So,” Jonathan continued, “seeing as I no longer have heirs of my own, I hope your offer of alliance doesn’t depend on a marriage.”

Derek smiled in gratitude and relief. “No, there is no marriage required. I’m open to all kinds of discussion and agreements.” His mind was already taking off in all directions, scrambling to compile lists of what his people had to offer which could be of use to someone from the north.

Jonathan smiled in return. “Well that’s a relief, because it looks like you two have already settled on each other.” He clapped Stiles in the shoulder, and he lurched forward from the force of it. The king sighed, his eyes sad. “I've missed having a son.”

Just as he recovered from the shoulder clap, Stiles choked on his wine.

“What?” he coughed, smacking his chest.

Jonathan looked amused, and like he couldn't quite figure out the man sitting next to him.

“As far as the Argents and the world are concerned,” he explained, “Derek is marrying my son in an alliance. We've allied, which makes you my son.”

“Yeah, but…” Stiles looked a little shell shocked. “The northern prince dies tragically and I go back to my life, that's the deal.”

“Or the northern prince could stay right here, as my son, and helps facilitate our alliance from here on out.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “Why would you trust me with that? You don't even know me.”

“Oh I’m not, I'm sending my own men as well, but it makes a convincing cover to anyone who might ask. Although,” he grew serious, “you need to work on your accent.”

Stiles gaped for a second before insisting, “I had a bad tutor.”

“We can work on it,” the king said with a grin. “Though at this point it doesn’t really matter what the Argents think about you or your accent. With my men and allies to the north, we have more than enough manpower to drive the them back to where they came from. If you want to, that is,” he added, deferring to Derek.

“I have news on that front,” Lydia jumped in, lazily swirling her glass of wine on the tabletop. She might’ve had a touch more than she intended. “With the Argents’ arrival, I received a letter from an old friend; Gerard’s granddaughter. She and her father would gladly stand with us should we choose to face him, and they have plenty of support around them.”

That left the table in a shocked silence.

“His own family?” Derek had to clarify because that was incredibly shocking. Even before his s spiel at dinner, the Argents were notorious for placing family loyalty above all, gladly dying before betraying their own.

Lydia nodded. “He’s all but abandoned the kingdom he claims to rule in his drive for more land and power. There’s only so far an empire can stretch before it starts to tear.” Lydia took a sip of her wine and her lips turned red like fresh blood in the shine from the candlelight. She would have her revenge on Gerard Argent one way or another.

“We have allies, we have their military plans, we have their own people on our side—” her smile turned downright devious “—they don’t stand a chance.”

Stiles’ visible unease at the gleam in her eye was exactly how Derek was feeling, and even Jonathan looked surprised.

“Well,” he said with another firm shoulder clap for Stiles. “I have duties to attend to and I’ll see you all bright and early for breakfast.” He turned to Lydia. “Revenge is best planned after a good night’s sleep.”

She smiled pleasantly and bid him goodnight, and after giving Derek a respectful head bow, he and his men made their exit.

Those who remained sat in a slightly shocked, disbelieving quiet at the way the day had turned out. From imminent death standing alone against an impossible force, to victory on the horizon with a good, strong ally beside them. Drinking wine on the terrace.

Stiles opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally breaking the silence.

“Did I just get adopted?”

“Sounded like it.” Derek had no idea what it meant in the long run, but it certainly hadn't sounded like a bad thing. At the very least, the northern king seemed like a fair man who appreciated everything Stiles had done.

He reached for Stiles’ hand below the table, out of sight of the others, though they didn't seem to be paying attention, now too wrapped up in their own excited discussions. “How does it feel to be a real northern prince?”

Stiles frowned like he was really thinking about it, weighings pros and cons, then: “I feel like I should return a bunch of stuff I stole.” He lowered his voice to almost nothing and whispered, “Especially Lydia’s.”

Derek couldn't help smiling at the idiot he was going to marry. Real prince or thief, Derek was going to marry him.

“I should, right?” Stiles continued, finally turning to his fiancé. “Half of it is kind of mine now too, or it will be, so I probably shouldn't steal my own stuff.”

“I don't think that counts as stealing anymore,” Derek pointed out, and Stiles looked like he was hit with an entirely new revelation.

“Now what am I going to steal?” He seemed genuinely concerned about the answer and frowned when Derek tried to force down a snort. “It's not funny, Derek, I just lost my identity!”

“But now you have a better one.”

“Says you! Fuck, I’m royalty!” This seemed to be a major emotional and mental upheaval for him, and he didn’t seem entirely thrilled.

It hurt to even consider it, hurt even more to say aloud, but Derek had to make the offer.

“Stiles, you don't have to stay if you don't want to.” He swallowed, forcing the words out. “I know this has been hard for you, and we don't need a marriage alliance if—”

Stiles kicked him. Then squeezed his hand like he was never letting go.

“You're such a stupid king, of course I'm staying. In fact,” still holding Derek, he reached into one of his pockets with his free hand and pulled out a ring. “Marry me?”

Derek couldn't help laughing. It was his own ring, one that he'd been wearing that very morning, and he had no idea when Stiles had swiped it from his finger.

“We’re already engaged,” he reminded him, but he still let Stiles slip it back on. It fit perfectly over the slight tan line it had created over the years.

“No you were engaged to Prince Przemysław,” Stiles said with a grin. He still couldn’t say it correctly. “Now you’re engaged to me.”

“A thief?”

“A prince.” Stiles smiled happily, genuinely, and leaned in for a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Like it says in the tags, shameless self-indulgence.
> 
> [tumblr](http://andavs.tumblr.com/)


End file.
